by Bill DeSmedt
“Dzhonathan Knox is an old friend, from a time when things were more . . . simple. When he contacted me just before the gala, when I learned that he was bound for London, I—well, it was the heart that spoke, not the head.” Sasha straightened a bit. “Even so, we have hosted Americans on Rusalka many times. Even as researchers in the public labs. Good cover, we decided.”
“But never so late into the end-game. No, my friend, you have left us with no recourse but a burial at sea.”
Sasha opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
“Let it go, Sashenka. Let Knox and his lady friend simply disappear. It is not as if they will hold it against you, in times to come.”
“But here, in this present, I have their blood on my hands. There must be some other way.”
“Hear me well, Sasha: I will not compromise the security of this operation for the sake of sentiment. Already there have been unfortunate incidents.”
Galina’s toast of the evening before? “None too serious, I think.” Sasha tried again. “Could we not simply put them ashore?”
“Where, in Great Britain? Even running at full speed, Rusalka is sixty-five hours out from Southampton. A round trip would mean a delay of more than six days. And the probe does not say next week—it says now.”
Grishin scowled. “No, if you insist on preserving your friends’ soon-to-be meaningless existence, you must give me a real alternative.”
“We could always airlift them out.”
“I, too, had considered this. However, the coast of Europe is well beyond our helicopter’s range. An airlift merely translates to a more elaborate, and more expensive, version of the sea-burial. Unless you thought, perhaps, to call in a VTOL.” Grishin smiled humorlessly.
Sasha stared. “A Vertical Take-Off and Landing jet?” Arkady Grigoriyevich thought big, give him that much. But—“The helipad would buckle under its thrust.”
“So, you agree it is impossible?”
“Wait, wait, there is another possibility: the Azores.”
It was Grishin’s turn to stare, coldly. “Go on.”
“Two and a half hours flying time, easily within helicopter range.” Grishin hefted the probe cylinder absently. “And the reason you would give for this abrupt departure?”
“I will invent something plausible, Arkasha. Please, believe: Knox may be puzzled, suspicious even, but there will be nothing he can do in the time left to him—the time left to any of us.”
Grishin tapped the metal cylinder against his teeth as he gazed into the middle distance, weighing alternatives. The tap-tap-tap was the only sound in the room. Sasha held his breath. The seconds-display in the countdown box flickered in his peripheral vision. Tap-tap-tap. Finally, grudgingly: “Very well, see to it.”
Sasha rose, effusing thanks and reassurances. Inwardly, though, something was nagging at him. Something in Grishin’s manner, in his tone of voice just now, hadn’t seemed quite right. There was something he wasn’t saying.
He paused at the door and glanced back, seeking to confirm the impression, but Grishin had already turned to his console again. The audience was over.
Vodka wasn’t supposed to give you hangovers. Knox’s head was splitting, notwithstanding. Where was truth in advertising when you needed it?
The poolside deckchair had been a good idea, though. The late afternoon sun was definitely helping—he’d missed out on the early afternoon sun, having risen only half an hour ago—and the sea breeze felt good on his fevered brow.
Wild night. Good to know the Russians hadn’t lost their ability to party hearty in the wake of Communism’s collapse. He frowned at a vague recollection: of standing on his chair at the banquet table, declaiming Russkii Yazyk, Turgenev’s magnificent paean to the Russian language. Had he really done that? Good thing they hadn’t gotten him started on the Lay of the Host of Igor.
He broke off his reverie as a shadow fell across his face. Someone was standing over him, blocking the warmth of the sun. Maybe if he just kept his eyes closed and didn’t move, they’d go away again.
“Dzhon, are you awake?” The voice came from what, squinting, he now made out as a backlit Sasha-shaped silhouette.
What now? Can’t a man just crawl off and die in peace any more?
“Dzhon?” Sasha sounded none the worse for wear, despite the night’s carousing. “I regret to disturb you, but something has come up. Do you know where is Marianna? This concerns her as well.”
Knox blinked his eyes against bright sunlight and sighed.
Grishin waited until Sasha had left, then spoke into the console’s microphone: “Run it again.”
In response, the image of the chartroom swam back into view, accompanied by a conferencing inset filled with GEI security chief Merkulov’s bloated face.
“And this is the recording from the night before last?”
“Yes, Comrade Director. I must apologize for the delay in finding this, but the image-analysis software that caught the anomaly is a low-level background function. It runs against offline dumps, and then only in time available. A forty-hour backlog is nominal, considering. In any case,” Merkulov hastened to get off the sticky subject of the time-lag in detecting the incident, “as you can see from the timestamp, the discrepancy begins about ten minutes after midnight, and continues for the next fifty-five minutes.”
“I see no difference.”
“Precisely. It is difficult to see, or we would certainly have caught it in real time. But watch, as I enhance this sector.” A glowing rectangle sectioned off and zoomed in on that quadrant of the image showing the flatscreen display hanging on the wall. What now filled the screen was a computerized chart of the North Atlantic, with a stylized ship symbol marking Rusalka’ s current position. Grishin peered more closely, and suddenly he saw it.
“Run that sequence again.”
At exactly 12:11 and 23 seconds by the timestamp, the little position marker suddenly jumped backwards along the line of Rusalka’s course—nearly five hundred miles backwards!
“This is our latitude and longitude as they were twenty-four hours earlier. Are you certain it is not a navigation-system error?”
“No, Comrade Director. The charting software is not malfunctioning; someone has tampered with the videocam signal. There is an almost imperceptible skip in the recorded image at the same transition point, just at the 0011 mark. And, on close inspection, the date-digit shows signs of having been altered, from August 1st to August 2nd.”
“One moment. Did you say between midnight and one A.M.?”
Merkulov nodded. “0011 to 0103 hours, Comrade Director. Why? Is something wrong?”
They were straining at gnats after swallowing an elephant. He had paid his own visit to the lab in that same timeframe—yet the recording failed to show it!
“No, nothing.” Grishin said finally. The fewer who knew how close they were to their goal, the better.
“Comrade Director, I need not tell you that this incident represents a grave breach of security.” Merkulov looked uncomfortable, as well he should. “In such circumstances, procedure requires—that is, shall I inform your second in command as well?”
“Absolutely not! Sasha has enough to occupy him at the moment. In any case, there is no need: I will see to the appropriate measures myself.”
He terminated the contact and sat back, thinking. In a way it was good the Americans had turned out to be real spies rather than foolish innocents who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sasha need never know that the outcome would have been the same regardless, that he himself had signed his friends’ death warrants the instant he let them lay eyes on Galina.
Grishin smiled grimly. Sasha need never know at all. As far as he was concerned, Knox and Peterson would be safe in London. There would be nothing to trouble his subordinate’s mind, or keep him from his work in these final days.
The smile remained as he spoke into the microphone. “Yuri? Report to the Residence, please.”
> Time to see about those “appropriate measures.”
“A volcano?” Marianna took Jon’s hand and pulled herself out of the pool. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not me, him.” He motioned to Sasha, standing a couple paces behind him. “It’s his story; let him tell it.”
She turned to Sasha and raised an eyebrow.
“It is true, Marianna,” he said. “Only an hour ago our remote sensors detected new volcanic venting in the rift. Indications are it could be Mount Venus herself.”
Venus was the highest undersea peak in the rift valley that bisected the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. Out there, the tectonic forces that had created the Atlantic to begin with were still active, still steadily ratcheting the Old World apart from the New at the breakneck pace of almost an inch a year. For the most part, such seabed spreading took place without much fanfare. Every so often, though, things heated up—literally.
Sasha’s scenario sounded plausible enough. But, coming so near the appointed hour for the mysterious “capture” event, the timing was a tad too convenient.
Still, she had to admit Sasha was putting his heart and soul into the performance.
“Imagine, an event of such magnitude, with us here to observe it firsthand.” He beamed. “We believe in time it could break the surface, become an island.” And Rusalka had arrived just in time for the show. Things could not be more perfect, except: “My friends, I am afraid this means you must cut short your stay with us.”
As if she hadn’t seen that one coming. Still, all she needed was one more night. It was worth a try.
“But it all sounds so exciting!” she gushed. “I mean, a whole new island! Oh, please, can’t we stick around to watch?”
“I regret not, Marianna. Rusalka must take up station at the site of the eruption, you see. Possibly for weeks—all depends.” Sasha shrugged. “No, best you follow your old American custom and go while the going is good.”
Jon surprised her then. “Okay, Sasha, we’ll be packed and ready to go first thing in the morning.” Marianna knew he’d been less than enthusiastic about her return engagement in the clandestine lab that night. Yet here he was, pushing to buy her the time regardless.
“No, no, Dzhon. Sorry if you misunderstood—even now Rusalka is making full speed toward the epicenter. By morning, we will be two hundred miles northwest of our present position, and out of flight range of the Azores.”
Come to think, she’d noticed that course-change. It was about an hour ago; she’d had to switch chaises or lose the sun. Was that part of the volcano ruse too? Or did whatever they were hunting lie in that direction?
“So, you see,” Sasha went on, “you really must go soon, within, um,”—a glance at his wristtop—“within the next three hours.”
“You’re really sure there’s no choice?”
“There are always choices, Dzhon. Some cost more than others.” Sasha turned to go.
“Whoa, Sasha—hold on a minute!” Jon grabbed his friend’s arm. “You don’t just drop a line like that and leave. In the good old days, that kind of opener would’ve kicked off an all-nighter.” Way to go, Jon!
Sasha wasn’t rising to the bait. “Alas, in these brave new days, I have responsibilities to tend to still.” He shook his head and sighed. “But you are right, too, Dzhon—those were good days.”
He engulfed Jon in a sudden bear hug, then held him at arms’ length, looking at his friend as if he might never see him again. Sasha’s eyes were bright as he said, “How I have missed those days, Dzhon, missed talking as we did the other night on the bridge. Talking so freely, so free of care.”
He released Jon and shuffled off, head down, wiping at his eyes.
Jon looked after him for a long moment, then turned to her. “Remember what you told me our first day aboard? Something about how nine-tenths of covert operations was contingency planning?”
She nodded, barely listening, still thinking about ways to compensate for the suddenly foreshortened schedule.
“Well . . .” There was a strange look in his eyes. “I think one of your contingencies just eventuated.”
“This our ride, Sasha?” Knox waved a hand at the Colibri sitting silently on Rusalka’s helipad.
“Yes, Dzhon. Horta in two-three hours. Would you like to stow that in the meantime?” Sasha pointed to the knapsack riding high on Knox’s back.
“Huh? Oh, no thanks. My handheld’s in there somewhere. Thought I might dig it out and make a call to the home office en route, to let them know I’ll be in London a few days early.”
“Dzhon, again, I am sorry for the rush. There truly was no choice.”
“You can make up for it by naming your new island after us, Sasha.” Knox was feeling anything but jocular; he was just joshing on automatic. “It would have to be “Jonathania,” though; there already are some Mariannas, I believe.”
“That’s with one ‘n,’ dear.” Marianna said, poking him in the ribs. “And they’re in the Pacific, anyway. I could do with a namesake closer to home.”
“Dearest Dzhon,” Galina embraced him. “I had so wished you to be present at this historic moment.” Knox could feel her trembling in his arms. She was certainly worked up about something, though he doubted whether even the birth of a new Azore qualified as a historic occasion.
“And you, dear Marianna,”—a quick hug—“perhaps next time we sunbathe, you not be so . . .” Galina wrinkled her nose and turned to Knox. “How to say ‘zastyenchivd’ ?”
“Bashful,” Knox supplied.
“Not so beshfool, yes?”
Marianna blushed. “Wish I had more to be bashful about. But maybe next time, provided we can lock the menfolk in the brig for an hour or so.”
“Send me email when you are settled,” Sasha was saying. “We should not wait half a lifetime again to get together.” His parting bear hug was hampered by Knox’s knapsack. “What do you have in that thing, Dzhon? Pipe fittings?”
“Telescope,” Knox improvised. “Not that there’ll be much viewing off Canary Wharf.”
“Well, then, you must most definitely sail with us soon again. Out here we have always stars. And you must join him, Marianna.”
“We hope you’ll come to see us in London first, Sasha. Stars or no stars.”
Grishin had come up behind the group as they were saying their farewells. He extended his hand. “So good to have met you, Mr. Knox. I look forward to welcoming you aboard again in future.” Then, in English to Marianna, “And you, my dear, you too must return to Rusalka. My little boat is only half so beautiful in your absence.”
Knox frowned. Everything seemed so normal. Had he overreacted?
But, no—over Grishin’s shoulder, he could see one more figure slouching toward the helicopter, flashing that trademark steel grin of his.
“Gospodin Knox.” Grishin switched back to Russian. “I have asked Yuri here to accompany you to Horta. I trust it is no inconvenience. Despite modern telecommunications, at times we must still move atoms rather than bits around the globe. In this case, some seawater samples expected at Woods Hole the day after tomorrow.”
Sasha looked surprised at this, but said nothing.
Knox swallowed. What wouldn’t he give not to be right all the time!
Still, keep up appearances: “We would welcome Yuri’s company, Arkady Grigoriyevich.”
By the time they were ready to depart, the sun was setting. The Colibri powered up, its flashing rotors catching the last light of day. It lifted off, circled Rusalka gaining altitude, then angled southeast in the afterglow.
Yuri Vissarionovich Geladze sat off by himself in a corner of the helicopter’s passenger cabin. He sat in silence. He looked at the window, but not out of it: between the interior lighting and the stygian darkness outside, its glass was transformed into a mirror. From time to time he looked at his watch.
He stole a glance at the other two passengers. They were chattering away in English, a language not among Yuri’s accomplishments. At most
he recognized the occasional word: “Rusalka,”
“London,” that sort of thing. Of languages, Yuri knew only Russian and the tongue of his native Sarkatvelo, which the Westerners insisted on calling “Georgia.” But he did know how to read tones of voice, and faces, and gestures.
By all these indicators, this pair seemed strangely agitated. Almost as if they knew what lay in store. It might simply be his presence that unnerved them. Yuri was aware that he had this effect on people. Other than its occasional usefulness in business, he seldom gave it much thought.
No matter. All over soon. He looked at his watch again: 10:25. The helicopter had been flying low, barely skimming the waves, for the past twenty minutes—staying well under the Terceira radar. There would be no way to trace this flight back to Rusalka. Give it five more minutes, just to be sure.
The man first, he thought. The man who had sent Yuri to fetch tea that night on the bridge. Who had treated him like a common lackey.
Then the woman. A waste, that. Perhaps he would have the Colibri hold on station while he indulged himself with her first. He had not had such a beauty in some time. Women unaccountably did not like Yuri.
A beauty. Yet something familiar about her too. Where could he have . . .?
Time, or close enough. Yuri unbuckled his seatbelt. Rose from his chair. The .45 slid noiselessly from his shoulder holster.
The couple stopped talking. Now naked apprehension showed on their faces. Good! No more of this polite nervousness. But the strangeness remained, their reactions were still not quite appropriate. They now seemed less afraid than they should be. Perhaps they still did not see what was to come.
This next part was ticklish. Grishin had instructed him not to soil the helicopter’s interior with blood, if it could be helped. Yuri took pride in his workmanship; the order would be carried out.
Pointing the gun at the man, the greater threat, Yuri shouted “Door!” above the roar of the engine. One of his few English words. He made twisting and yanking gestures with his free hand. The man understood, though he looked sick. He went to the hatch, undogged it, shoved it back.